


may we love the things we cling to

by aftermillennia



Series: I'll collect all of your stories [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Romance, Unspecified Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftermillennia/pseuds/aftermillennia
Summary: He could spend the rest of his days here, embracing and embraced by the man that’s occupied the space behind his rib cage since the day he woke to his heart, his muscle, his skin stitching back together.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: I'll collect all of your stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114997
Comments: 30
Kudos: 177





	may we love the things we cling to

**Author's Note:**

> God I wish that were me.
> 
> cw: brief mention of chronic pain

Yusuf slowly surfaces from sleep and follows the shadow drifting across the gold painting the back of his eyelids every few seconds. He exhales softly at the sensation of something brushing across his forehead, down the slope of his cheekbone and back again. It’s gentle, a hint of contact which soothes rather than tickles, and Yusuf could easily fall back into slumber from the repetition, the trail of warmth left in its wake. His face is being mapped; the line of his nose is traced, the hollow of his right eye then back over the bridge of his nose to repeat on the left. Yusuf’s eyelashes brush against the questing touch. His jawline is outlined, skin catching on the new growth of stubble, before resting feather-light on his lips. 

Yusuf purses his mouth, lips catching on callused fingertips, and peeks his eyes open. 

Nicolò is facing him, propped up on an elbow with a barely-there grin. The sun is streaming through the window behind Nicolò — he’s a perpetual early riser, even after all these years — and Yusuf admires the sunkissed line of his sharp shoulders, the soft waves of his hair haloed by light. He wonders how long Nicolò has been awake, how much of that time has been spent like _this_. The thought warms him from the inside out. 

Yusuf blinks slowly and kisses the fingers lingering on his lips. Nicolò hums and tilts his head slightly, hair skating across his shoulder. His grin is in full force now. 

The pressure against his mouth disappears and Yusuf can feel the deep frown forming at the loss. It eases, Yusuf’s face calling completely lax as Nicolò’s fingers reappear against his scalp to rub slow, firm circles across his head — careful not to card through curls. He feels like sinking into the mattress and never leaving. 

“Good sleep, beloved?” Nicolò’s voice is Yusuf’s favorite sound; low and soft, the lilt of his accent endlessly enthralling. Yusuf sighs, a pleased little noise chasing the tail end of his breath when Nicolò laughs lightly and rubs the spot near his temple where he is prone to suffer headaches. Yusuf’s fingers twitch against the sheets, shivers racing down his arms. 

“Mmm… always when I’m with you,” Yusuf’s voice is rough from disuse, tongue clumsy in his mouth. He slides his hands across the sheets beneath the steady warmth of the covers and wraps his hands around any piece of Nicolò he can reach. His fingers curl around a familiar waist, skin dimpling beneath his touch, and lightly pulls. 

Nicolò does not budge. 

“ _Nicolò—_ ” Yusuf tugs at him with a little growl and Nicolò breaks out into breathy laughter as he finally concedes and returns to Yusuf’s embrace. 

Yusuf’s hands slide across sleep-warm skin as he pulls Nicolò closer and closer, turning them until Nicolò’s back is against the sheets. Yusuf nuzzles into the hollow of his throat with a sigh, eyelashes fluttering closed. Nicolò follows easily, as he does in all things, and wraps his arms around Yusuf; one hand settles on the back of his neck while the other returns it’s journey across Yusuf’s scalp in slow presses of his fingers. 

A whisper of the world outside has crept into the quiet of their room: people talking and the intermittent rumble of carts down the city street; the floorboards of the hallway beyond their room creak and Yusuf suspects Andromache has risen; Quỳnh is not far behind if the too-loud close of a door is anything to go by. The day has begun but it is early yet and Yusuf tunes out the waking world and focuses instead on the rush of air in Nicolò’s chest and the sound his fingers make against Yusuf’s curls. Little tendrils of warmth arc across Yusuf’s skin when Nicolò’s fingers press behind his ears and he burrows further into Nicolò’s embrace to soak up the pleased hum vibrating against his ear. 

He could spend the rest of his days here, embracing and embraced by the man that’s occupied the space behind his rib cage since the day he woke to his heart, his muscle, his skin stitching back together. 

But that would be selfish. 

The work they do is important, instills good where the world tries so hard to stamp it out. Even yet, Yusuf finds himself thinking of days filled with nothing but this: the safety and satisfaction of his beloved and the peace found in that knowledge. Hiding away within each other’s company at the expense of enacting good _would be_ selfish but a stolen moment or two could be forgiven, surely. 

Yusuf molds his fingers against the shape of Nicolò’s ribs, less and less pronounced as the centuries pass, and cradles the thrum of his heartbeat in his palm. Every inch of him feels weightless beneath the gentle touch in his hair, the hand cradling the back of his neck. Yusuf likes the press of their bodies, the pocket of warmth created in all the places they meet. Best of all he likes the clear effect his presence has, the way Nicolò melts beneath his weight; they learned early on that Nicolò found the most comfort from some part, any part, of Yusuf covering him. Yusuf takes solace in that fact, in Nicolò ’s trust, and ties them together every night until they are an extension of each other even in sleep. He curls his arms more tightly around Nicolò and feels the press of lips against his forehead. 

Nicolò’s hand squeezes the back of Yusuf’s neck once before smoothing down his spine, fingers shifting against the knobs, the raised patch of scar tissue he’d earned during an accident on his father’s merchant vessel. It was a heavy lesson learned — the pain of which he carefully managed for many years up until his death — and he regrets his youthful recklessness, regrets that there's a piece of him that won’t know Nicolò’s touch until after he becomes mortal. Still, Nicolò rests his hand against it, fingertips warm against the edges where Yusuf _can_ still feel. 

Yusuf skims his nose across Nicolò ’s collarbone, inhales the clean scent of his skin, and lazily imprints the shape of his mouth up the side of his neck to settle against his steady pulse. Nicolò’s hand retraces his spine to curve around Yusuf’s neck once more. 

“Sleep, Yusuf. I have you.”

Yusuf exhales and follows his beloved as easily as he does in all things.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Here's your reminder that you are irreplaceable, you are not alone, and you are very, very loved. Stay safe! 
> 
> [@aftermillennia](https://aftermillennia.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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